A Killing Rain (12 page)

A cop wearing the black uniform of the Sereno Key Police Department opened the front door after peering at Louis through the small window. Louis didn’t recognize the guy, but the cop seemed to know Louis and stepped back to let him in.

His brass name tag read: A. Jewell. “Evening sir. Chief said you’d be coming around.”

The living room was quiet, with only one lamp lit, and the television was turned to “Police Story.” Jewell picked up the remote and muted the TV.

“Anything going on, Officer?” Louis asked.

The cop shook his head. “Nothing, sir.” He held up a notebook. “I’ve been keeping a log of neighborhood activity. But it looks like just the normal comings and goings.”

Louis nodded. “Did you take a couple of calls from a man earlier today?”

“Yeah, two. He asked for Ms. Outlaw, but wouldn’t give his name,” Jewell said, flipping a page. “Since then, it’s been just the chief. He calls to check in every hour on the hour.”

Louis shivered. The house was freezing cold. “Where’s Susan?” he asked, looking toward the kitchen. He could smell coffee brewing.

“In the bedroom,” Jewell said. He saw Louis’s eyes go to the sandwich and Coke can sitting on the coffee table.

“The lady said to help myself,” Jewell said.

Louis nodded and went down the hallway. The bedroom door was ajar and he knocked lightly. There was no answer so he pushed it open. The bedside light was on, the blankets and sheets pushed down, but Susan wasn’t there.

Louis poked his head
in the bathroom. Not there either.

“Susan?” he called out
.

He went to Benjamin’s
closed door and opened it. The room was dark except for a glowing nightlight by the side of Ben’s bed. Susan was sitting on the lower bunk, wedged in the corner, her head down, a Star Wars comforter pulled up over her knees. She said nothing as she looked up; her eyes asked the question.

He realized at that moment that she knew nothing about everything he had seen in the last twenty-four hours, and suddenly he wasn’t sure where to start.

“We haven’t found him yet” Louis said.

She put her head back down.

Louis sat down on the bed’s edge, ducking his head under the upper bunk. She pushed away the comforter. She was wearing old gray sweatpants and a baggy black sweater. Her hair was a mess, her feet bare.

“I was in the kitchen and I heard the cop’s radio,” she said. “I heard something about a car in the park. He wouldn’t tell me what was happening.”

“They found Austin’s car in the lake,” Louis said. “There was no one inside. When I left the park, I went home and —-”

“You’ve been gone since yesterday,” she snapped. “You’ve called
only twice and then you find the car and you go home before you bother to tell me anything?”

He took her shoulders, holding firm. “Listen to me.”

She was silent.

“Austin is alive. He was hiding at my house.”

“He’s what? What did he do with Benjamin?”

Louis quickly recounted Austin’s pathetic
story and with every word, Susan’s body grew more rigid. By the time he got to the part where Austin took a taxi to Captiva, she was pushing him away, crawling off the bed.

“I’ll kill him,” she said, her hands balled into fists. “I swear I will.”

“Susan, I wanted to kill him, too, but that won’t help anything. You’ve got to stay calm.”

She left the room. Louis scrambled to follow her. He found her in her bedroom, throwing things from the top of
the closet. He went to reach for her arm and she spun toward him, a nickel-plated revolver in her hand. He snatched it from her, stepping back.

“Stop this. Now.”

She glared at him, then her shoulders slumped and she wiped at the strands of black hair that hung in her face. “I’m sorry. I’m sorry.”

He wrapped an arm around her shoulders, leading her out into the living room.

“Put this away somewhere,” Louis said, handing the revolver off to Jewell.

He sat Susan down on the couch and went to get her a cup of coffee. He spied a bottle of wine and brought her a glass instead.

He placed the glass in her hands and urged her to take a drink. Her face twisted slightly at the first taste but she took another, then another.

Finally, she set the glass on the coffee table and wrapped her arms around her belly. “What is happening here, Louis?” she asked softly. “Who would take Benjamin?”

He sat down next to her and took her hand. “Chief Wainwright is on his way over. Maybe we can figure this out.”

She closed her eyes. “I hate him with every ounce of my soul,” she whispered.

Louis pulled her to him and she fell against him. Her breaths were ragged, her muscles tight. The phone rang and he felt her jump.

Officer Jewell moved to answer
it but Louis waved him off and went to the phone, grabbing the receiver.

“Yeah?”

“Outlaw? Is that you Austin Outlaw?”

Louis hesitated. “Yeah. Who’s this?”

The phone went dead. Louis hung it up slowly. It was one of them. He knew it. Anyone else who knew Austin was in Fort Myers was dead. But what was the point in calling? They hadn’t demanded anything. They had only wanted to know if Austin was here.

“Louis, who was it?”

Louis looked at Susan. Jewell was right behind her. He motioned slowly toward the floor.

“Get down,” he said quietly.

Jewell immediately took Susan’s arm and sat her down on the floor.

“Stay here,” Louis said.

“Louis, what —-?”

“Susan, just stay here. Please.”

Louis crept back into the living room, turning off the television and the table lamp. Jewell was right behind him. They sat down on the carpet, backs against the couch.

“Sir, who was on the phone?” Jewell asked.

“One of them.”

“What’d
he want?”

“I don’t know. He thought I was Outlaw.”

Louis looked across the dark house to Susan. She was still sitting just inside the kitchen, a hand pressed to her mouth, her eyes locked on Louis. In the quiet, Louis could hear the hum of the refrigerator. And faintly, the hiss of tires on the wet street outside.

Louis scrambled across the carpet and rose slowly, flattening himself against the wall. He peered out a crack in the drapes. A car’s red taillights were disappearing around the corner. Other than that,
the street was quiet, most houses dark. He looked back at Jewell.

“Jewell, you said you got two calls today from a man. Are you sure there were only two?” he asked.

“I swear, just two and it sounded like the same guy.”

Louis knew those calls were from Austin, if he was telling the truth that he had called here.

“What about yesterday?” he asked.

“None.”

“Then this is the first time they’ve called here.”

“Louis?” Susan called out.

“Stay there, Susan.”

“Louis, what the hell is going on?”

“Susan, please. I have to think.”

Louis
’s mind was whirring. It had been twenty-eight hours since Austin got away in the park. If they wanted something from him, why did they wait so long to make contact?

“Jewell, you’re positive no one else has called?” Louis asked.

“I told him to tell people not to call, Louis,” Susan said before Jewell could answer. “I wanted to keep the phone clear for Ben to call.”

“Like I said, sir, it’s just been the chief,” Jewell said.

“Then why the hell did they wait until tonight to call?” Louis asked, almost to himself.

“You said the
man on the phone thought you were Austin Outlaw,” Jewell said. “Maybe they saw you come in tonight.”

“Austin and Louis don’t look at all alike,” Susan said.

“Excuse me, ma’am,” Jewell said. “I don’t mean to be rude or anything but to some white guys, most black guys look a lot alike, especially if they’re the same height and build. Plus it’s dark and it’s been raining hard. Easy mistake to make.”

Louis stared at Jewell. Then he looked at Susan. Even in the dark, he could see something new in her eyes. Something crowding
out the fury toward Austin and the pain over Benjamin. She was looking around her own home, the place she had so carefully made into a place of safety and light, and now she was seeing the shadows and feeling the cold creeping in from the outside.

Damn it.
He had done exactly what he had been trying not to do by leaving Austin at his place. He had led the killers right back here.

And he had made Susan
a target.

Louis wanted to go to her. But he stayed at the window, looking out at the empty street, his hand resting on the butt of the
Glock in his belt.

The pizza box was warm against his palm, even with the glove on. His heart was beating fast, and he tried not to look nervous, tried not to
look around the neighborhood as he waited on the porch for someone to answer the door.

He knocked again. He heard the lock click and an old wrinkled face appeared in the doorway. He was trying to remember his instructions.

Stay cool. Be friendly and she’ll let you in.

“Pizza, ma’am,” he said, giving her a smile.

“We didn’t order a pizza.”

He motioned toward the paper stuck to the top of the box then looked at the house numbers above
the door. “This is the address I got.”

Her tiny brown eyes peered at him. “But we
...”

“Well, shoot,” he said, easing closer to her, a foot now inside the door. “I’m in big trouble. This is my second mistake this week. Can I use your phone?”

She hesitated, her eyes moving to the Toyota parked in the drive. A bright magnetic Pepe’s Pizza sign sat on the roof.

He edged further inside the door, feeling the screen against his back. “Please, Ma’am. I’ll be fired if I don’t get this right this time.”

The old woman moved back. Adam Vargas stepped all the way into the house and closed the door behind him. She turned to show him the way to the kitchen.

Don't take too long.
Do it fast.

Vargas followed the old woman to a bar that separated the dining room from the kitchen
and set the pizza box on the bar. Reaching under his denim jacket, he drew out his knife. She was turning to hand the receiver to him when he cut her, drawing the knife quickly across the sagging skin of her throat.

She didn’t utter a word. Just looked at him with those little brown eyes and dropped to the floor, falling against the bar, knocking the pizza box to
the floor.

“Ida?”

Vargas’s head shot up.

An old man. He was standing in the small kitchen at an open door leading to the garage. His eyes dropped to his wife’s body on the floor
, to the pool of red blood spreading across the white linoleum.

Damn it.

The old man reached for a kitchen drawer but Vargas was there, hand to the old man’s throat, bending him backward over the kitchen table. The man’s hands came up at him. Vargas slit his throat, feeling blood spray across his own face.

He let go of the man, and wiped a sleeve across his face. Time to get out of here. He started back to the front door then stopped.

The clicker. The goddamn garage clicker. Byron would’ve killed him if he had forgotten it.

Vargas walked back through the kitchen, pausing at the door leading to the garage. It was dark, but with the light from the kitchen he could see a big white Buick.
There was just enough space to park the Toyota next to it.

He jerked open the Buick’s door and poked his head in, looking for the garage door opener. Nothing. He popped the glove box and rifled through the neat stack of maps. Where the hell did they keep the damn clicker?

He was about to give up when he had a thought and flipped down the visor. There it was. He grabbed it and started back toward the kitchen. He stopped, looking up at the overhead light. A long string hung from the fixture. He didn’t dare pull it now.

But h
e wondered if the light would go on when the door opener was activated. He hit the button. The door started to move, but the light didn’t go on.
Good.

He hit the button again and the door stopped a foot above the ground.

He left the house, slowing his steps when he hit the porch, trying to look cool, like Byron had told him.

Climbing back into the Toyota, he drew a deep breath before he started the car. Byron Ellis was in the backseat, hunched down.

“Did you get the clicker?”

Vargas held it up.

“Back out slowly.”

Vargas backed down the drive and drove slowly away from the old people
’s house, past Susan Outlaw’s house, rounding a curve at the end of the street. Then he stopped the car again near a rise of bushes and rolled down the window.

He reached up and pulled the magnetic pizza sign from the roof, tossing it
on the seat. He let out a breath, looking down at the dead body of the pizza delivery guy squashed to the floor on the passenger side.

He rolled the window back up against the cold. The car was ripe with the smell of pizza and it made his stomach roll with hunger. “How long do we wait here?” he asked.

Byron Ellis sat up in the backseat. Vargas could see his face in the rearview mirror.

“I don’t know. A few more minutes.”

“Man, it worked, just like you said it would,” Vargas said. “You knew we might have to come back and you were checking things out for a good place, right?”

“Yeah, right, Adam. Now be quiet.”

Vargas looked again in the rearview mirror. “Did I do okay?”

“Are the old people dead?”

“Yeah.”

“Then you did okay.”

They sat for a few more minutes.

“Okay, let’s go back,” Ellis said. “Easy like, but quick. Turn the headlights out and hit the clicker for the garage as soon as you round the co
rner.”

Vargas turned the Toyota around and drove back to the old people’s house. It was easy to disappear quickly inside the dark garage.

They walked back through the kitchen. Ellis stopped and looked at the old man spread out on the table.

“Jesus, Adam, you made a mess.”

Vargas frowned. “It’s the only way I know how.”

Ellis glanced at him. “Forget it. It’s okay.”

Ellis walked around the old woman and leaned over the sink, looking out the window to the backyard. Then he disappeared into the living room, turning off all the lights.

Vargas pulled his knife back out of its sheath and walked to the sink. He was careful to step around the table, careful not to step in the wide pool of blood that covered most of the linoleum in the tiny kitchen. He looked down at the old woman, curled there on
the floor. He didn’t even remember slicing her. Her husband, yes, he remembered doing that. But the woman...funny, he didn’t remember how she had died.

Vargas paused at the sink and turned on the faucet, laying his knife on the counter.

You made a mess.

Mess? Death was supposed to be messy. It wasn’t supposed to be quiet and neat, like having your wrinkled old heart just
shrivel up and stop in your sleep one night. If you were going to die, better to go out fighting.

Like cops. Hell, they went out every day knowing they might have to fight for their lives. That actually gave him some respect for them.

Far more than he gave that coward Austin Outlaw. The bastard ran. Deserted his own kid. He was the kind who would slip away quietly, like from a drug overdose, a disease, or maybe even suicide. That man needed to understand what a death of glory was.

He took off his gloves and held his hands under the warm stream for a few moments. He squinted at his fingers.

Blood...how did he get blood on them? He glanced at the black gloves he had tossed on the counter. There was a tear in the palm, sliced completely through.

Damn it.

They were fifty-five dollar gloves, a “getting out” gift from Byron. Gloves were important. In “Shane,” the Black Angel always put on his black gloves before he killed someone.

He’d have to keep these for now. It was too damn hard to find good gloves in Florida.

Vargas picked up the knife and held it under the running water. He washed it until the water was clear again then used a sponge to wipe down the knife’s thick curved blade. He was careful to get all the blood out of the place where the steel met the wood hilt. When he was finished, he started to turn off the water then stopped. No prints, Byron had said.

He spotted a dish towel. It had a border of blue ducks
and matched the blue ducks marching across the wallpaper. He had a vision of the old woman standing in Wal-Mart, carefully matching up all the kitchen accessories. Getting her ducks in order.

He used the towel to turn off the water then to wipe the knife dry. He put the knife back in the sheath on his belt, careful not to touch the counter with his bare hands.

“Byron, I ruined my gloves. I cut them,” he said, coming back into the living room. “I’m sorry.”

“Don’t worry about it
.” Ellis glanced back. “Did you touch anything in there?”

Vargas shook his head.

“Where’s your gloves? I told you to keep your damn gloves on.”

Vargas slipped the gloves back on. “Are you mad at me?”

“Why would I be mad?”

“If I hadn’t fucked up out there in Alligator Alley...”

“That was my fault. I should’ve gone with you.”

“And if I hadn’t missed Outlaw at the park.”

“My fault, too. I shoulda taken the shot. I know you’re lousy with guns.”

“But if we’d gotten him at the park
—-”

“Shut up, Adam. It’s done.”

Ellis peered silently out the window, watching Susan Outlaw’s house. Vargas turned and walked to the back of the house. He wanted to see if the old man had a nice set of leather gloves. Not likely. You didn’t need them much here. But then again, lots of these old geezers came from up north and some kept gloves around for the trip home.

He went to the first bedroom and turned on the light. He blinked, staring at the room.

Cowboys.

They were everywhere. Cowboys dancing across the wall. And more, on the old chenille bedspread twirling lassos, and there on the lampshade riding bucking broncos around the bulb, and there on the curtains...hundreds of cowboy hats.

He stood staring at it all, thinking about his own room back in the trailer.
This
should’ve been his room.

He wanted to stay there and just look at them for a while longer, but he had to find some gloves. He pulled open the dresser and rummaged through the clothes. Nothing. He gazed around, his eyes finally going to the open closet. Just a bunch of old clothes and some blankets on the shelf. But there were a couple of old Hush Puppies shoe boxes up there, too. He pulled the first one down and took off the top.

Baseball cards. He tossed the box on the bed and got the second one down, flipping off the lid.

He let out a slow breath.

It was full of plastic cowboys, Indians, and horses. They were old and there were maybe a hundred of them crammed in the box.

Vargas pulled out a little figure wearing a hat and fringed chaps. He knew who it was. And he was proud he knew.

“Byron,” Vargas called. “C’mere.”

“What?”

“You gotta see this.”

“Well, bring it out here.”

Vargas grabbed a handful of the figures, and stuffed them in his pocket, tossing the shoe box on the bed. He went back to the living room, carrying the one he recognized.

“Look at this. It’s Gene Autry.”

“Who?”

“Gene Autry.”

“Oh yeah,” Ellis said without looking back. “He was that guy who got the medal in World War II or something.”

Vargas stared at him. “
Nah, that was Audie Murphy. Gene Autry was a famous cowboy. What’s the matter with you, you didn’t have a TV when you were a kid?”

Ellis ignored him, his eyes intent on the street.

Vargas held the plastic cowboy up, trying to see it better in the darkness.

“Hey, come over here and watch the house,” Ellis said.

“Why? Where you going?”

“I want to get rid of these damn bodies,” he said. “It’s bad enough we
gotta sit here and wait for fuck knows how long till Outlaw shows up. I ain’t living in blood until then.”

“Where are you going to put them?” Vargas asked.

“In the trunk of the Buick,” Ellis said, heading to the kitchen. “It’s cold enough out there they shouldn’t start to stink for days.”

Ellis disappeared. Vargas set the Gene Autry figure on the windowsill, tilting his head to look at it
. He began to sing softly as he looked back out at the house across the street.

“Back in
the saddle again. I’m back in -— ”

He stopped suddenly.

A white car was coming down the street. It slowed and pulled into Susan Outlaw’s driveway, parking behind the old Mercedes. Vargas peered into the dark, watching as a man got out of the car. He hurried through the rain and up to the porch. In the few seconds he paused under the porch light, Vargas got a look at him —- tall, black.

Shit.
It was Outlaw.

Vargas looked toward the kitchen then back at the house. A cop opened the front door and Outlaw slipped inside.

Vargas let the blind fall shut. Hell, he had only seen Outlaw a few times. On Friday, when they had first driven down this street, they had seen Outlaw from pretty far away putting suitcases in his trunk and when they realized he was leaving, they had decided to wait and get him when he drove back to Miami. But then he had put the damn kid in the car and they had to rethink everything.